


Of Finality and Truth

by patooey



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-07 23:56:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patooey/pseuds/patooey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was an unsent message found in Sherlock Holmes' mobile phone, made a few minutes before he jumped. And, it was for none other than John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Finality and Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by [THIS POST](http://chillininthetardis.tumblr.com/post/47254385300/guys-what-if-john-went-to-get-sherlocks-phone) on Tumblr. I was going through the Johnlock tag when I saw this and BAM it just clicked.
> 
> Thanks for reading.
> 
> Own none, get none. Only a bit of love and some creys.

Sherlock Holmes could only gape as Jim Moriarty lay out cold, stretched out over the pool of his own blood.

Finality blew against him with the frigid London wind, prickling his skin, making his hair stand on end. He let Moriarty think that he had the last laugh, the said expression still etched grotesquely on his face in death. But, a nervous chuckle somehow comes out of Sherlock. _It is actually my last laugh, dear Jim,_ he thought mordantly as he circled the cadaver, his mind a ticking clockwork. The plans were lining up in his head: he defeats Moriarty by feigning defeat himself, and then he will proceed with faking his death, keeping him out of circulation for a while. He had Molly Hooper to thank for the seemingly-impossible feat, while if he felt a bit sorry for toying with her feelings and using it to his advantage. Next, his mind travels to what he will do after his “death”, in which he plans to track down all of Moriarty’s cronies and stop them, with Mycroft’s help, of course. He, in particular will try and go after a Sebastian Moran, the consulting criminal’s rumoured second-in-command. Suddenly, just as his thoughts were on how he should go out of the country unnoticed, his mobile phone beeped; a message. Sherlock swiftly fished out the phone from the depths of his inner coat pocket, and read the incoming text.

_I’m on my way._

It was John Watson, his blogger and doctor.

All the while that they were going at his supposed final case, he kept all his plans from John, ultimately keeping from him that he would be staging his passing away a few minutes from now. He had wanted John to know, but it may endanger both their lives, already endangered as they were at the moment. Sherlock knew there was a gun pointed at John’s head as he stood, as well as at Mrs. Hudson’s and Lestrade’s, and only his demise could save all three of them. Surprisingly enough, he found himself more than ready to die for the three of them. He was ready to die for Greg Lestrade, his detective inspector and counsel. He was ready to die for Mrs. Hudson, his mother-figure and honorary housekeeper.

More importantly, he was ready to die for John Watson, his colleague, his friend, or even more than that.

Quickly, he typed in his reply, a rather short but significant one, his gloved hands slipping a few times. There was a lot of explaining to do, but it was what he typed that was the most important thing he had wanted to tell of all. He was, as he has explained many times towards people, more of a texting person. Yet, somehow, the moment had him at a loss for words, and it was urgent that he gave John a call, _the_ final call. He exited the messaging application, the draft of the message unfinished but saved, and shifted to the dial pad and pressed the speed dial number to John’s mobile. At once, it rang. Presently, a cab pulled up on the street in front of him. Sherlock watched from above as John hurriedly alighted and looked at the mobile phone he was clutching.

“Hello?” Answered John after two rings.

“John.”

“Sherlock, you okay?” His voice was laced with concern as he walked towards the entrance of St. Bart’s. He mused at how, in the face of danger, John thought more of others before himself, how in that moment he thought of Sherlock. However, he could not allow himself to indulge in this privilege anymore. Steeling himself, he dictated in his most stern tone.

“Turn around and walk back where you came from.”

“No, I’m coming in-”

“Just do as I ask, please.” He heard himself imploring to John on the line, at the same time Sherlock implored to whoever was up there for John’s safety.

He also implored for John’s forgiveness towards what he was to do.

 

\---

 

Two weeks after the Fall, John found himself curled up on Sherlock’s sofa by the fire, trying to recover any essence of him that was left. The event had left him devastated and more confused than ever. It felt like he had lost everything, including his very reason for existence. Sherlock had been the reason why John lost the cane and the tremors caused by traumas past, and the reason why he was able to get back to the wide world. Not only did John start fending for himself again, he had also started fending for Sherlock Holmes.

All of it was lost the moment he saw Sherlock’s lifeless form on the cold pavement.

He refused to believe it at first, having claimed to feel a flutter of a pulse when he held on to Sherlock’s wrist before he was pushed forcefully aside and the detective was whisked off to the emergency room of the hospital. The only time that he had accepted, or at least _pretended_ to accept, Sherlock was gone was when he saw his body covered with a stark-white sheet. John could remember the last time he saw him in a sheet, and they were in the Buckingham palace, no less, and Sherlock was breathing, laughing, living.

Then, it struck him, the finality of it all.

Throughout the funeral, a bleak and rainy Thursday, John wore his most blank face like a mask, but deep inside him was great turmoil. _Sherlock is alive, I believe so, and I know so._ It was his mantra as the said person was being lowered six feet below the ground, dirt and water sealing what John presumes was an empty coffin. Only when he was in the safety of the closed doors of 221B Baker Street did he allow himself to cry until his eyes were dry.

For three days, he did not get out.

John was distracted from his thoughts when a gentle knock came from the door, followed by a tinkling of keys. He looked towards the direction of the ruckus, only to find Mrs. Hudson opening the door in her own accord.

“I’m sorry for intruding, dear, but he wants to see you badly.” Her voice trailed off as she made way for Greg’s Lestrade figure to come to view. John only went back to looking at the fire, acknowledging his presence with a little “What is it, Greg?”

Lestrade did not lose time as he walked towards John by the fire, as Mrs. Hudson closed the door after her. He took the liberty of sitting on John’s usual place across Sherlock’s, presently occupied by the former.

“I am making the biggest offence by taking evidence out.” The detective inspector started as John looked on while he took out a zipper bag containing Sherlock’s mobile phone. “We found this in the crime scene, the rooftop of St. Bart’s.” Carefully, Greg pressed on buttons that opened the phone. It had continued working, even with the cracked screen. The investigation team had managed to decrypt the mobile phone, allowing them to view the call logs and message histories. In the course of examination, Greg had seen an unsent message from Sherlock to John during his final moments, and it was highly personal, from the looks of it. Being a friend to both, he took the risk and presented to John the mobile phone, the message opened. He felt that it was the right thing to do at the moment, to give a bit of solace to John during trying times.

“There was a message directed to you, John, yet he never sent it. The timestamps say it was saved a few minutes before he jumped. I could have just printed a copy but…” He cleared his throat to let some tension out, and then held out the package to John. “I thought it may be best to see it in its truest form.”

_Truest,_ John inwardly scoffed at the word. _True. Truth, does it matter now?_ He took the phone from Greg while shooting him an apprehensive look. However, the moment he started reading the message, his defences had fallen. The cold façade he had worn for people had been broken, all because of what Sherlock had in mind in the last minutes before the decisive fall. And, it was not what he had expected at all.

“He… loved me?” John whispered in a broken voice, his vision blurring with tears threatening to fall.

“Excuse the pun, but…” Greg could only watch as John clutched the plastic-covered remainder of Sherlock to his chest as sobs rocked his body. “Evidently, yes.”

_Damn all the lies, accusations and deception that surrounded Sherlock’s death,_ John thought as he held on to the piece of evidence cradled against his chest, cold and hard. _I have the truth now, and it is all that matters._ The tears steadily streamed down his face now, quiet in their wake.

Greg merely reached out and placed a firm hand on John’s knee as a sign of empathy and support.

 

 ---

 

_[Saved_ _4/9/10_ _14:58] Read carefully. And, keep this in mind. If there is one truth left in this twisted orchestration, it is that I have always, and always will, love you, no matter what, and more than you could imagine. - SH_

 

 


End file.
